


The Problem of Desire

by DonnesCafe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bees, First Kiss, John is an idiot, M/M, Overdose, Romance, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, post-HLV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 20:13:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1317736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock realizes the costs and benefits of desire. John is a bit slow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Problem of Desire

_Those who restrain desire do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained._

~~ William Blake, _The Marriage of Heaven and Hell_

**I. Water**

_Water_  
_for tea. Or tests._  
_Controlled experiment._  
_The sea, soft salt, moving under._  
_drowning_

Diacetylmorphine. Also known as Diamorphine, used to treat severe pain. H. A tiny prick. Erasure. 

He laid down the burden of himself and the pain almost as soon as he withdrew the needle from the vein. A black-velvet silence filled him. Almost as good as death. It seemed unfair that he wasn't already dead. Mycroft’s plan had been a relief. Leaving on a jet plane, a bit of risk-taking, of undercover playacting. 

Then death. He had almost laughed in Mycroft’s tragic face. His all-knowing brother hadn’t realized that he wanted to die; the dragon-slayer slain. Release from a life that had become intolerable. 

Seeing the pity in Mycroft’s eyes had been intolerable. “They” cared. Not him. Freak. Machine. Savant. Colleague. Little Brother. Never lover. 

Friend. Pitiful. That one word had been enough to tear down his defenses. One tiny fissure in the wall of the dam. Chaos, swirling water. Now he was drowning. 

He said goodbye to John that day. Had not crushed him in an embrace. Had managed not to tell him that he loved him, that he wanted him, that John was life to him. He held the fragments of himself together admirably, he thought. He had given John the wedding he wanted, as much as lay within his power, and then the life he wanted. Then they called him back. He had spent his reserves, and there was nothing left. 

He had always been too much, had always wanted too much. Mycroft, his mother, his father. They had always been so in control. “Oh, Sherlock, the mud.” The blood, the dog, your room, your clothes. Even his hair had been more unruly than Mycroft’s. Torn again. The noise. The tears. The neighbors. The mess. Control yourself, darling. He was the changling. Obvious, really. The cuckoo in the nest. 

The black water rose. He smiled.  


**II. Tea**  


_The pots._  
_take care she said_  
_they have to be used. Filled,_  
_touched. Where your treasure is, there is_  
_your heart_  


“I can’t let you go in, John.” 

10:00 a.m. call. The cab to Barts, chest tight, mind chaotic. 

“I have to see him, Mycroft. He almost died. You have to let me see him.” Mycroft had called him, of course. God help Mycroft if he hadn’t called him. Overdose. Accidental? Suicide attempt? 

“John, I’m…sorry. He refuses to see anyone but me. I have to respect….” 

“Jesus, Mycroft. Jesus. He’s my best friend. Please.” 

Mycroft looked away. Wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Give him some time, John. He’s not…. Give him some time.” 

He looked around the small waiting room. Of course. Private room. Private waiting room even. Mycroft was thorough in a crisis. Molly was sitting hunched up in a chair, white lab coat still on, face as white as the coat. He had called Mrs. Hudson in the cab on the way to the hospital, but she was crying. She had gone up with his morning tea. Found him unconscious on the floor. He told her to stay put, that he would call her again from Barts. 

Molly stood up, walked over, and put her hand on his arm. “He won’t see any of us. John, I’m so sorry. What happened? Why would he do this now?” They all knew that he had had serious drug problems in the past and had flirted with them since. But why this? Why now? 

Lestrade walked into the room. He held out a paper cup. “Tea.” 

John shook his head. Lestrade pressed it into his hand. “Milk. Two sugars. Sit down and drink it.”  


**III. Briars**  


_Roses_  
_have thorns. Of course._  
_And bees buzzing defend_  
_the golden center surrounded_  
_by blood._  


“You know my methods, John.” Yes, he had learned some things. But he was slow. It took him weeks with absolutely no help from Mycoft. Mycroft just kept saying that Sherlock was in recovery and didn’t want to see anyone. 

He had finally found the extremely private facility. Called in favors from doctor friends, military friends, old friends he hadn’t talked to in years. He had investigated through endless nights and endless cups of tea. 

They wouldn’t let him in. Said that Mr. Holmes had requested no visitors. Which Mr. Holmes? Both. 

This was ridiculous. He brooded over a pint of bitter at the local pub. The sodding place had walls and guards. It was like a maximum security….. Well, maybe it was. Maybe it did double-duty for MI6. Or something. Bugger Mycroft. 

Two could play at this game. He had been a soldier. He had learned some things from Sherlock. His bet was that for all the show of security, they thought it was defended mainly by its secrecy and remoteness. 

The next day, that proved to be the case. He managed to get over a high stone wall, through a thick stand of yew. Through a thick hedge of late roses. Upper-class defenses, all. He looked down at his hands as he came out onto a lawn. Badly scratched and bleeding. Bees buzzed lazily around him. He was short of breath, blood pounding in his ears. He had to find Sherlock, and he knew he didn’t have much time. 

And there he was. Sitting not thirty feet down the hedge of wine-colored roses. Sitting in a lawn chair. Looking at the bees. Grey t-shirt, black trousers, same unruly hair. Painfully thin and pale as death. 

He walked toward him. Stopped three feet away. The eyes slowly shifted from the hedge. They were grey and flat. 

”Christ, Sherlock.” All the other words that he had thought he wanted to say, words he needed to say. He couldn’t find them. 

”Please go away, John. Mycroft said you’d figure it out. Now you have.” The eyes shifted back to the bees. “Now go away. Please.” 

He did.  


**IV. Bees**  


_Apis_  
_mellifera._  
_In winter they withdraw,_  
_cluster, compact. Honey a dream_  
_of spring._  


”I can’t tell you where he is now, John. I promised him.” 

”But he’s better, he’s recovered?” He had pestered Mycroft by text, by phone, at his office. Now at his club. Through autumn, past another Christmas, into another spring. He couldn’t let it go. Wouldn’t. Mycroft had finally agreed to meet him at the Diogenes. He cared about Sherlock, had always cared about him. There was a hole in his life no-one else filled. He found himself waking up beside Mary after dreaming about Sherlock. The baby had come. Sweet Sarah Rose. She would be a year old in just a few weeks. Sherlock had never even seen her. 

It was somehow worse than the two years he had thought Sherlock was dead. The miracle he had prayed for, back from the dead. Sherlock had changed. He had been softer, more open. More available. What the hell had happened? His thoughts had circled for months. Nothing made sense. 

Mycoft shrugged. “He’s not using.” 

”I’m his best friend.” 

”You’re almost his _only_ friend.” 

”So why won’t he see me? Does he think I’m angry? Disappointed?” 

”Drink?” 

John sighed. Nothing was ever easy with Mycroft. Or Sherlock for that matter. He nodded. 

Mycroft didn’t call for a waiter. Instead, he reached into the leather briefcase at his feet, pulled out a bottle. Why was Mycroft carrying….? He set it on the table. Bushmill’s Irish Honey. Whiskey with honey in it? What? John stared at it while Mycroft rose, went to over to a cabinet and retrieved two heavy glasses. 

“Irish Honey?” said John, momentarily distracted from his interrogation of Sherlock’s brother. “I thought you’d drink something impressively expensive and peaty with an unpronounceable Gaelic name.” 

Mycroft poured a precise half-inch into each glass. “I’m full of surprises,” he said dryly. He swirled it and took a small sip. His lips tightened and he set the class down precisely in the center of his side of the table. 

John sipped his drink. Too sweet, even for him. He set the glass down. 

”What is he doing? Where is he? Mycroft, I have to know that he’s all right.” 

Mycroft put his hands on the table on either side of the barely touched glass. He didn’t look up. “I can only tell you this. He is not using drugs. He has left London. He has…. embarked on another profession.” 

”Embarked….?” Only Mycroft would use such a word. Sherlock had left London. He had left the city and the role that had connected them. He was gone. Mycroft stood up. Some expression John couldn't name passed over his face. “There’s a car waiting to take you home.” Mycroft abruptly turned and left the room without another word. 

John walked slowly down the steps. Sherlock had done it again. He was gone, and this time he didn’t think he was coming back. This time was worse. 

He got into the car. On the seat to the far side was an unopened bottle of Bushmill’s Irish Honey with a post-it note. Mycroft used post-its? But the writing was unmistakable. “Thought you might like this. M.”  


**V. Honey**  


_Wax walls._  
_Hexagons hold_  
_supersaturated_  
_secret sweetness, hidden until_  
_walls break._  


Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Or something like that. Sherlock had said something like that. 

He was sitting on the sofa drinking the Bushmill's Irish Honey. He had sort of gotten used to it over the last several hours. He was sitting in the semi-darkness. Mary was asleep in the other room. He had gone to check on Sarah Rose in her crib, dreaming her small dreams. Mycroft would never drink this. He had only taken a sip. He had seen that John hadn’t liked it either. He looked down into the gold liquid and suddenly realized that Mycroft never did anything without a reason. It was a bloody clue. Mycroft actually had a heart, a complex one. He had given him a clue. 

Maybe he had given him more than one. He tried to recall every word of his conversation with Mycroft. He knew he had sounded desparate. He had said he was Sherlock’s friend. Mycroft had said…. He took another sip and tried to recall his exact words. Almost his only friend. Almost. Well, of course. He thought of Lestrade and Molly and Mrs. Hudson. They were it. But Mycroft had said Sherlock wasn’t in London. Another clue… another clue. So, Sherlock wasn’t in London, so he wasn’t with any of them. He sighed and furrowed his brow. He was no good at this. What else? Mycroft had said “embarked.” Old-fashioned word. “Embarked on another profession.” What else could Sherlock possibly do? Chemistry? Become a professor? A spy? 

The whiskey had to have something to do with it. It was an incongruous note. Glaringly incongruous. Why? It was cheap? Sweet? Honey? John suddenly sat up straight. He closed his eyes and thought back to the day he had found Sherlock at the rehab-spy-mansion… whatever it was. He had been looking at the bees. Sherlock was interested in bees? He had said something a long time ago about bees…. Retiring and keeping bees. John had thought it was a joke. 

Something ghosted through his mind and then was gone again. He stood up and started pacing. What… what? Think. Suddenly he stood still. Hives. Sherlock had said something to him when he had asked about Janine and the tabloid dust-up. Something about a cottage in Sussex. “But I talked her out of getting rid of the hives…..” Bees. Hives. He had talked to Janine after Magnussen. After what she had done. After what he had done. 

”Oh my god." He went back to the coffee table, picked up the glass, and lifted it in a silent toast to Sherlock's brother. Bless you, he thought, you are actually human. I’m going to hug you the next time I see you, no matter what. 

By mid-morning, he had made it to Sussex and found the cottage. Grey-stone, pretty flower garden in the front, spring sunshine everywhere. He knocked on the door. 

”Well, if it isn’t the good doctor. Myc said you’d work it out.” She stood in the door, unsmiling. She didn’t invite him in. 

”Is he alright? Are you sleeping with him?” Wait. What? That wasn’t at all what he had meant to say. 

Suddenly Janine’s stern expression softened, and a tiny smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Oh, John. How can you be such an idiot? He deserves better. Just saying.” 

He didn’t try to defend himself. “Can I see him?” 

She hitched her head to the left. “Go around back. But you can't tell him Myc gave you hints; said he'd skin him. He’s out there with the bees. Don’t be an idiot, though.” 

He went around the house, through a gate. A long green lawn stretched up a gentle slope. He could see the hives dotted in the green. Between John and the hives there was a weathered wooden table and chairs. He was sitting there. White shirt, black trousers. Flowered tea-pot. One cup. A blue plate with toast. 

He looked up, stood suddenly. The cup tipped over, spilled tea which ran, copper over the greyed wood. He still held a half-eaten piece of toast. There was honey on his mouth. 

John crossed the grass in four long strides and covered that mouth with his own. It was warm and sweet and still open. He put his arms around Sherlock, pressed in. The body was stiff, but the mouth moved under his, formed words. “John, no…. I can’t…..” 

John put both hands into the dark curls and drew the head down more firmly to his own. He stopped any further words with his tongue, and slid one hand around to the back of the neck, massaging the taut muscles there. The stiffness went out of Sherlock’s body. 

After what seemed like a long time. John drew back. There were tears on his face. Were they his or Sherlock’s? Was there a difference? 

He buried his face in the pale, beautiful neck. “Never leave me again. Never. I’ve been an idiot.” 

He felt Sherlock sigh. “But John, we can’t….” 

“We can.” 

“Mycroft told you….” 

“Mycroft played fair. He gave me a clue. A... couple of clues.” 

Sherlock's arms went around him. A small laugh. “Ever the sentimentalist. But, John, how….” 

“Don’t be an idiot. That’s my area.” He drew Sherlock’s head down again. Now he knew why he had dreamed about that mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> A quick Saturday morning fic with an experiment in cinquains.


End file.
